Maternity
by SteveGarbage
Summary: Neither she nor Maric had intended for him to happen. Neither she nor Maric had been old enough, mature enough, to know what to do about it. Neither she nor Maric had thought that entrusting their son's care to Eamon would be a wrong move.


She nearly choked the first time she saw her son.

It was why she had diverted to Redcliffe. It was why she had made up the excuse to take the long way around Lake Calenhad on her way to Kinloch Hold. It was why she had sent letter after letter to an old friend making sure that he could set up a meeting with Arl Eamon and arrange to lodge overnight at the castle. Everything she had done for the last six months had been for that singular purpose.

And then the little golden-haired boy came tearing into the hall, his arms spread out at his sides like wings as he scampered across the richly woven carpet, outpacing his Orlesian stepmother who was scowling as she bounded a few steps behind him trying to catch him before he could interrupt his lordly stepfather.

Her breath caught in her throat because she knew, instantly, that he was hers.

Fiona couldn't remember what she had been saying. She was saying something. Whatever it had been, she had stopped midsentence as her eyes locked onto the little, running, smiling, laughing boy. Her eyes followed every rough step he stomped down as he fled from his annoyed foster parent.

Arl Eamon turned his head, just in time to see the little boy swing past him and hide behind the legs of the Warden Commander who was standing just to her side.

"Get over here right now!" Isolde threatened, her finger pointing to the carpet in front of her. She obviously didn't care what company was with her husband or how she presented herself. She had been long in Ferelden.

"Save me, Uncle Duncan!" the little boy cried as he crinkled his tiny hands around the cloth of the Warden's pants. Duncan swept his arms down, scooping the little boy up to his hip.

"What did you do this time?" Duncan asked.

"I didn't do nothing!" he insisted.

Eamon smiled. "I highly doubt you didn't do _anything_ ," the Arl said, correcting the boy's grammar.

"Eamon," Isolde said, still scowling.

"It's all right, dearest," Eamon said to his wife. "We can watch after him. Besides, you'll never pry him away from Master Duncan now."

The boy nuzzled his head into Duncan's chest, his head turned toward Fiona. He had dark eyes and golden hair like his father. His ears were as round and normal as any other human. He did not have her nose or her eyes or her mouth. The only thing she could see of herself in him was her high cheekbones and the apparent streak of rebellion and mischief.

The sound of Eamon and Isolde arguing was and indistinct muttering on the periphery of her hearing as she stared at the boy's features. How old was he now? Six, already? It had been so long. She had once resolved that she would never come here, she would never put herself in this position. But every year that passed, there was that growing knot in her stomach, the pull, a Calling.

She had escaped the curse of the Taint and its darkest Calling by some accident. The Wardens spurned her, detested her and expelled her because she had sidestepped their grim fate. But she had only escaped a slow doom, only to replace it with a longing that none of them had or understood.

"Who's this, Uncle Duncan?" the boy asked, lifting his tiny hand and pointing toward Fiona.

Duncan looked up at Fiona and smiled underneath the thick, oily black beard he wore as he shifted the boy's weight in his arms.

"This is Fiona. She's an old friend of mine, Alistair."

Alistair, he said.

His name was Alistair.

Her son's name was Alistair.

* * *

Fiona could hardly pay attention to the polite dinner conversation as her eyes and her mind continuously wandered toward Alistair.

"Duncan tells me you're on track to become First Enchanter," Eamon said.

" _Grand_ Enchanter," Duncan corrected, with a mocking smile. Years as Warden Commander of Ferelden had made Duncan much more grim than she remembered of his youth, but the young, obnoxious street urchin from Val Royeaux was still buried there. "The best of all the mages."

"Truly?" Isolde said as her eyes lit up over the rim of her wineglass. "That must be so exciting."

Eamon's wife reminded Fiona of the classless courtiers that cluttered up the edges of social outings in Val Royeaux. She was doe-eyed and dim with an undeserved haughtiness. Eamon, at least, seemed to have a good head and demeanor to him. It had seemed that the Arl had much more love and patience for the boy than she did. That could only mean good things for him.

"It would be less than half as exciting as it sounds," Fiona said, downplaying the role. "I would spend much more time listening to the mages argue amongst themselves, while also listening to the Chantry yell at me to keep things quieter."

That's not to say she wouldn't rather have it this way than prowling through the stinking dark chasing after darkspawn. When she was young, all she had wanted was to get out of the Circle. Then when she got out, she discovered there were worse ways to be trapped and doomed than life in the tower of Val Royeaux. But the recent trips she had been making as an ambassador to other Circles were slowly creating an itch in her again that the outside world, the free world, was where mages needed to - no, deserved to - be.

Alistair had a barbarian grip on his fork, his small hand wrapped completely around it, stabbing mercilessly down at his food. Either Isolde didn't notice or she had given up on correcting him for the night.

"I want to be a mage!" Alistair exclaimed. "Then I could shoot fire at people. Bang, bang! Boooooooom!"

The boy slammed his fisted hand down at his plate on the emphatic crackling, sizzling explosion sound, causing the plate to jump and clang loudly back against the table, his food shifting. His glass of juice teetered, but did not fall.

"That is enough, Alistair!" Isolde scolded. He at least had the sense to lower his eyes and look sorrowful.

"You don't want to be a mage," Fiona said, forcing a smile at the boy that she sure looked much more sad and conflicted than she would have wanted. But it reflected what she felt. "Let's hope you never become one when you grow up."

There was a chance of it. Magic was in her bloodline. She did not know of any Theirin mages, but the legends of the house suggested that there might be something more than martial strength, nobility and the will to survive that drove the house for centuries and through an oppressive occupation. There was nothing magical, so to say, about King Maric. He was only a man, although a very good man.

But Alistair was still young, too young for magic to show signs if he was so afflicted. She only hoped, for his sake, that he would not be like her. He did not look like her. He did not act like her. He would not be like her.

If fate was against her, she knew that at least Irving would do his best to ensure her boy had a good life. Kinloch Hold was rugged and poor in comparison to the Circles of Orlais or even the nicer ones in the wealthier Marcher cities. But Irving had a good heart and always had the best interest of his charges at heart. A man did not lead something so tumultuous as a Circle of Magi for decades without being a true prodigy.

"Then maybe I'll be a Grey Warden like Uncle Duncan!" Alistair said, changing life paths in an instant. "I'll stab all the darkspawn in their faces and then there'll be a big dragon and he'll be like 'Roarrrrrrr' and I'll be like, 'You don't scare me you smelly dragon!' and then…"

"Alistair!" Isolde interrupted again, grabbing the boy's wrist as he stabbed the air over his plate with his fork as if he were driving a dagger into a hurlock. She wrestled the fork out of his tiny fingers and placed it on the table. "You can go back to eating after you calm down."

"You don't want to be a Grey Warden either," Fiona said kindly, attempting another smile. This one, she felt, came off slightly more genuine. She was one of those, once, but not any more. "Right, Duncan?"

Duncan was in the middle of chewing a too-large chunk of undercooked meat. The kitchen had prepared him a portion at least twice as large as the others, including a major helping of red meat and hearty potatoes. Fiona too remembered the way her stomach used to grumble. Kell had once told her that Wardens needed to feed the taint as well as the body, lest the darkness devour the soul. That had only been his dark philosophy, she hoped. Still, just to be safe, she had always eaten what was put before her.

"I don't know, Fiona, it's not _that_ bad," Duncan said with his mouth full, shooting her a sly, teasing smile.

Duncan had grown considerably since their days together. He seemed a head taller. He was much thicker now. His face was more leathery and drawn. He was a man, now. But he looked old. Old and tired. Just like all of the senior Wardens Fiona had ever encountered. Hard and dark and grim.

"You were skulking around in a freezing crevice in the Frostbacks before you arrived, looking for darkspawn that would want to eat you," Fiona said.

"The cold mountain air is good for the lungs," Duncan said with a shrug.

She shot him a hard glance that definitively screamed _No._ At Redcliffe, raised in the Arl's household, the boy would get both an education in books and the practice yard. He'd have the honed fighting skill of any lord without the title and pedigree to discourage the thought of Joining.

"I don't want to get eaten," Alistair said.

"Nor should you," Arl Eamon said. "And let us hope that we never live to see the day when an Archdemon needs to be stabbed in the face."

"Agreed," Duncan said, raising his wine cup to the arl, who likewise accepted the offer.

"Then maybe I'll be King!" Alistair declared.

Eamon choked and sputtered wine into his glass. The reaction of Duncan was somewhat more muted, though he turned his eyes and glanced at Fiona over the rim of his cup. Fiona lowered her eyes and hoped her cheeks weren't growing pink.

"You can't be king," Isolde informed the child. "Prince Cailan is going to be the next king, Maker protect him."

"Maker protect him," Fiona agreed with a nod, lifting her cup to drink her wine before her throat closed and choked her to death.

* * *

"The Orlesian Captain said, 'We will take over your city and fill it with wine and smelly cheese!'" Fiona read, lowering her voice to a lower pitch and letting her natural Orlesian accent do the rest. Supposedly this book was Alistair's favorite, but she raised an eyebrow at the questionable depiction of Orlesians. Clearly, it was written by a Fereldan.

She turned the page of the book, turning it slightly to show the colorful painting on the next page. The mabari hound wore an armored vest around his body, his powerful front legs planted into the ground and his shoulders and head as high and proud that he might as well be substituted for the Lion of Orlais.

"But Ser Bark was not scared of the Orlesian captain. The dog stamped his front paw into the dirt once and let out three thunderous barks - 'Woof, woof, WOOF!'"

Only in Ferelden would their greatest hero be a dog, Fiona thought.

"This is my favorite part," Alistair said, pointing to the next page. Fiona smiled, turning the book a little more so he could see the far page.

"The captain was very afraid of the strong mabari. His legs began to shake, his hands began to quake and his face went white under his silly golden mask," Fiona read.

The Captain was depicted with an oversized, gold-colored mask with dopey eyes and a gaping simpleton smile. She turned the page.

"Ser Bark charged ahead. His wet, pink tongue flapped hungrily out of the side of his mouth. His short, stubby tail wagged excitedly. And his big, white teeth shone out from under his lips. When the Orlesian saw Ser Bark running toward him, he did what all Orlesians do and began to run away."

The picture showed the Orlesian turning and running away, leaving a big puff of smoke behind him. He was running so fast that his mask and yellow feather were hovering the air where his body used to be, revealing the captain's bald head and big, bushy moustache. She turned the page.

"Ser Bark easily caught the captain, biting him in the rear once for the King. Ser Bark bit him a second time for the Queen. Then Ser Bark bit him a third time for all of Ferelden. The captain howled, 'Owwwwooooooo, my derrière!' with each nip from Ser Bark's powerful jaws."

Alistair laughed at the picture of the dog's teeth latching around the Orlesian's extended, big, red rump. Apparently from the last page to this one, the captain had lost not only his armor but his pants as well. Even Fiona had to smile at the absurdity of it.

"All of the Orlesians ran away, because no one wanted to be bitten in the bottom by the brave dog, Ser Bark. The town was saved and all of Orlesians were chased back across the mountains to their palaces filled with smelly cheese."

In the next picture, Ser Bark stood on top of a mountain in his same heroic pose, glaring down at a roughly drawn sketch of the skyline of Val Royeaux in the distance. It had green stink lines wafting from the white towers.

"And all the townsfolk thanked Ser Bark for chasing away the Orlesians and fed him piles of bacon to thank him for his bravery."

The dog's head was lowered to a mountainous plate of bacon as indistinct townsfolk circled around him celebrating.

"When he had eaten all the bacon, Ser Bark left the town and went on to the next, keeping his eyes out for more smelly Orlesians. To this day, Ser Bark the Brave Mabari guards all of Ferelden, keeping you and I and all it's people safe and free," Fiona said. "The. End."

She closed the cover of the book and looked down at Alistair, who yawned widely as he pulled his blanket closer to his chin. "Thank you for reading," Alistair said. "Lady Isolde never wants to read me the Ser Bark stories."

Fiona smiled and brushed her hand through Alistair's golden hair. It wasn't the most flattering story, but it was cute. And Alistair was a young Ferelden boy. Growing up to hate the Empire and its chevaliers would be part of his upbringing. Maybe by the time he got older, he would see her as the enemy. But for now, he was just an innocent young boy who relished the thought of a dog being the savior of the country.

"I would read to you every night if I could," Fiona confessed, resting the back of her hand across his cheek. He smiled as he closed his eyes and nuzzled into her fingers. "Now try to go to sleep."

"It was nice meeting you, Fiona," Alistair said quietly.

His words stabbed her straight in the heart and she forced herself to swallow.

"It was nice meeting you too, Alistair," she said shakily. Fiona bent down, planting a single kiss on the boy's forehead and slowly lifted herself from the bed. Alistair turned and snuggled under his blankets, digging his head deeper into his pillow and squeezing his Ser Bark stuffed animal to his chest.

She lifted the lamp from the bedside table and quickly crossed to the door and went through, slowly closing it until she heard it softly latch behind her.

She exhaled, having held her breath for her hurried escape from the boy's bedchamber.

Fiona crumpled to the floor, her back pressing against the door as the tears began to flood down her cheeks. The lamp touched down onto the floor with a clang, as she held her palms over her face, trying not to make a noise as she sobbed just on the other side of the barrier to her son's world, a world that she would never be a part of.

She should have run. She should have taken her son and fled the Wardens. She should have thrown away her staff, thrown away her armor and given it all away. She should have run to the alienage in Denerim. She should have crowded into some hovel. She should have fought and scrapped and killed just to survive, just to eat, just to live, just to be with him.

Neither she nor Maric had intended for him to happen. Neither she nor Maric had been old enough, mature enough, to know what to do about it. Neither she nor Maric had thought that entrusting their son's care to Eamon would be a wrong move.

Fiona wondered if his heart was torn as deep and bloody as her own, or if he had all but forgotten about his second son, his bastard boy conceived in the darkness of the Deep Roads with a foolish girl who could not control her feelings.

"He's a good lad, your boy."

Fiona pulled her tear-streaked hands away from her face to look upon Duncan, who stood before her, looking down and dour at her. She pushed to her feet and jumped to him, his arms wrapping around her back. As Duncan squeezed her, it forced the rest of the sobs out onto his shoulder.

It was a mistake coming here. The wondering, the pain, had been intolerable. But how much worse would it be after this? How could she return to the Circle after seeing his face, after seeing the light and hope in his eyes? To the world, Alistair was nothing, which meant that he could become anything. He would not be bound by his father's duty or his mother's curses. He could have the normal life that neither was allowed, that both had wanted.

It was foolish to make this trip and to torment herself. She could never see him again. For her sanity. For his safety. Somehow, some way, she would need to forget him. She would need to force herself to not think about him, to not ponder his life and wonder how he grew.

She whimpered with regret and could feel as Duncan's hands squeezed her tighter. The light pat of his palm between her shoulder blades only made it worse, a sputtering cough and a cracked sob that scraped out of her throat.

"He'll have a good life here," Duncan cooed. "Eamon treats him as if he were his own flesh and blood."

Fiona's fingers scrunched into the fabric of Duncan's shit, clawing, grasping for any hold to try to stop the aching and the tears that she could not shut off.

"Promise me you'll look after him," Fiona managed to slide between her lips, moist with the salt of tears.

"On my life, I swear it," Duncan agreed without hesitation.

That, at least, gave her some relief. The way Alistair had already taken to Duncan had spoken volumes to the role the Warden Commander already played in her child's life. He had been here often, that was plain to see. Like the taint and the duty of the Wardens, Duncan would carry the burdens she could not.

"Is there anything I should tell him about you," Duncan whispered. "If he asks."

Fiona placed her head against Duncan's breastbone, sniffling as she roughly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. To carry on in such a way, it was embarrassing. She would have been run out of court in Orlais for such a display.

She nodded as she sniffled against, a horrid, disgusting sound as she tried to recompose herself.

"No," Fiona said. "He can never know about me, for his own good."

"I understand," Duncan said, a deep and sorrowful understanding in his breath.

No, it would not do, Fiona decided. Her son, he could not wander the world alone, thinking of a mother who would leave him without a thought.

"If he asks," Fiona said. "Only tell him that his mother loves him, more than anything. That I love him, so much so that I had to let him go."

They could never be together.

But she would always hold him, locked deep within her heart.


End file.
